


Five Times John Watson Disliked Being Compared to an Animal and One Time He Didn't Mind So Much

by incapricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Post The Great Game, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during and after The Great Game.  Epiphanies and fears and beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times John Watson Disliked Being Compared to an Animal and One Time He Didn't Mind So Much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaalee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/gifts).



> Happy birthday! I hope this year you get everything you want, and more.
> 
> Thanks to elanorofcastile for looking this over (although I then tinkered with it more, of course).

**1.**

John is glad they took him before he got to Sarah's place.

He would have preferred not being kidnapped at all, of course, but barring that, he is relieved Sarah was left out this time. He isn't sure their friendship -- or whatever it might turn into -- would survive another abduction. Despite Sarah's astounding sense of adventure and adaptability, if two men had burst into her flat with handguns drawn, she would have been well justified in saying, "You know, you're great and all, but I think hanging around with you is bad for my health."

Instead, the men took John as he walked down Baker Street trying to hail a cab. And of course, they didn't need to pull out their own weapons to make him change his destination to "wherever these two gentlemen would like me to go". The red of lasers flashing across his chest from a nearby window or rooftop was enough to make John clench his hands into fists and get in the car without a word.

The scenario was familiar, but there was no enigmatically beautiful woman on the other side of the car this time, and no harmless Holmes brother playing at being a villain at the end of the journey. Just two goons in expensive suits forcing him through the service entrance of the leisure centre.

"Don't know why the boss said to be careful of 'im," says the man holding John's left arm as he is dragged down a corridor, the smell of chlorine in the air. "I've seen bunny rabbits more threatening."

John sets his jaw and waits for the moment he can demonstrate just how very unlike a bunny rabbit he is.

 

 **2.**

He spends hours sitting in the men's changing rooms with explosives strapped to his chest, trying not to move lest he trigger a detonation. After a while, it becomes easier. He watches men come in and out, all dressed in black, all carrying guns.

Then one of the suited goons approaches him, holding something in his hand. John fights against the instinct to pull away when the man reaches for his head; he doesn't even twitch when something is shoved into his ear, and something else is pushed down the back of his shirt.

So, an earpiece, not a pager. John wonders if it's is the same model as the one the blind old woman wore.

He wishes, again, that they had been able to save her.

He also wonders what kind of puzzle Moriarty set for Sherlock, for the fifth hostage -- for John. When will he be forced to make the call that sends Sherlock scurrying to solve another crime? And will Sherlock care that Moriarty is using John's voice? Or will he shrug and say, "It's a good thing I don't go in for this caring business" and continue as if nothing has changed?

Then Moriarty speaks. The voice in John's ear is soulless and smooth; it's the first thing that makes him feel real terror.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. I hope you're enjoying my hospitality. I'm terribly sorry for the wait, but you know how Sherlock is... he said midnight, so midnight it shall be. It's all a bit... romantic, don't you think? Inviting me to meet him here, alone... bearing gifts of missile plans."

John says nothing. He doesn't want to give this madman any more information than he already has.

It's difficult, though. He wants to know if Moriarty is lying. He'd like to believe he is, but he knows Sherlock. Sherlock, who agreed to get the shopping as if it were nothing, and who wouldn't look John in the eye. Keeping John out yet again. It hurts.

::

The parka goes on well before midnight, just to get him into the proper frame of mind, Moriarty explains. By the time John steps into the pool area, blood hammering in his ears, he is bathed in sweat. He can feel it dripping down his chest and neck.

John is afraid of many things in this moment: of dying, obviously, and of pain. But more than that, he is afraid that Sherlock will see him and not react, will look at John as he looks at any other bit of data and will use him to achieve whatever end he's after. (Which is another thing: is this all part of a scheme of Sherlock's to triumph over Moriarty, or is he handing over state secrets to a criminal mastermind without regard for the consequences simply because he wants to see what will happen next?)

When Sherlock sees him, though, John's fears evaporate, only to be replaced by a new, more terrible one.

Sherlock stares at John, stricken, betrayed, horrified. Before Moriarty has even commanded him to unzip the parka, John knows that Sherlock cares for him deeply -- enough to be hurt by him. Beyond that, he knows that Sherlock needs him. Sherlock needs him in his life and Sherlock needs him to get out of here alive, because John is not just another hostage.

His only fear now is that he won't be able to save Sherlock, won't ever be able to tell him he cares for him too.

He watches and waits, acting the perfect hostage. When Moriarty flings the missile plans into the pool, John lunges for him.

But Sherlock doesn't run. John wouldn't have run either. Which is why, when Moriarty refers to John as Sherlock's pet, John knows for certain it's not true. He squeezes tighter on Moriarty's neck, wanting him to feel the depth of his mistake, to know that he's got it wrong: they are friends. They love each other. It's probably something Moriarty is incapable of understanding.

Then the snipers turn their sights on Sherlock.

 

 **3.**

The last thing John remembers is letting go of Moriarty and backing away before one of the snipers could put a bullet through Sherlock's brain.

Something must have happened since then, though, because when he opens his eyes, he is in a small metal room filled with sound and flashing lights. His body rattles and pain shoots through him.

"There, there, kitten, you hang on," says a woman hovering over him. "We're almost there." She straightens up. "BP is falling. Ninety over forty."

"I'm his friend. I'm not a kitten," John says, but he doesn't think anyone can hear him. His voice sounds far away even to his own ears. "I'm not a kitten!" he repeats, feeling something cover his nose and mouth. He wants to pull it off--

\--but his arms are gone.

Or maybe he can't feel them. He can't feel anything except his heart beating. Slower and slower.

Not a kitten.

 _Where's Sherlock?_

He's not...

 

 **4.**

Johns awakens to find Harry crying at his bedside. A few moments later, millions of nerve endings begin clamouring for his attention at the same time, all with the same message: something is terribly wrong.

Christ, he hurts everywhere. There's an IV line running into his left hand; whatever is in the bag isn't strong enough.

Wait, this is a hospital. Why is he in hospital?

"Harry?" he says weakly. His throat is raw, as if he was recently intubated. "What happened?"

"Oh, Johnny! My little precious Johnny! You're alive!" she says loudly, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.

Her breath brings with it the familiar, overwhelming smell of gin. Harry's poison of choice. John tries to turn his face away. "Of course I'm alive."

The first time he saw Harry drunk, she was fifteen and he was eleven. She climbed through his bedroom window in the middle of the night, returning from God knows where, her wild eyes terrifying him.

"Shhh, little Johnny, go back to bed! Stop your crying, that's not what men do," she said, her words sliding out slurred, just like Mum's did.

He knows intellectually that he should forgive her for leaving him to be the good son, the one who made sure Mum didn't wander out in the middle of the day in her dressing gown, the one who tried to protect her from Dad when he was in one of his moods. He should forgive her for being weak, for becoming someone else when she couldn't handle being herself. But that doesn't mean he can.

"Harry, I need-- is Sherlock all right?"

"Who?" she asks, pressing a hand to his cheek.

"Don't touch me," he says. "Sherlock. My flatmate. My... my friend."

Harry smiles, confused. " _Friend_?"

"Yes, we--"

"Johnny, have you gone gay on me? Mum and Dad will be rolling in their graves." Her smile turns vicious, her eyeteeth showing as if she wants to sink them into John's flesh. "How convenient for you to let me be painted the black sheep while you went on with your perfect son routine, all the while secretly taking it up the arse. How long as this been going on? How long have--"

"That's enough, Harry!" John says, louder than his throat will allow. _She's drunk. She doesn't know what she's saying. She's drunk._ He coughs, and feels pain bloom through his chest and abdomen, and coughs again. "Oh, God," he gasps between coughs. "Get the nurse. Find Sherlock."

Harry taps John's cheek, harder than a loving pat but not quite a slap. "Get the nurse yourself, you little rat."

The room is spinning. John flexes his right hand and finds a small plastic button in his palm. He presses it, not knowing if it summons pharmaceuticals or medical professionals.

Either will be welcome.

 

 **5.**

The door to 221 Baker Street is the best thing John has seen in weeks. He limps up the stairs slowly, Mrs Hudson nattering on behind him.

"Oh, look at you limping, you poor lamb. I hope you still have your old cane. Do you remember that, Doctor Watson, how you used a cane when you first arrived? My goodness, that seems like years ago, but it was just months, wasn't it?"

John winces when he takes a deep breath. The lingering bruises and scrapes and cuts will heal, as will the hairline fractures in his ribs, of course, but he doesn't appreciate the reminder that he is now even more broken than he was before. At least in some ways.

"I'll be fine," is all he says.

"You gave us quite a scare though. You should have seen Sherlock fretting."

John pauses on a step. "You know Sherlock, he was probably upset that Mor-- that the bad guy got away."

"Oh, no no, dear. He was worried sick about you. I would hear him pacing back and forth all night at first. I don't think he's slept a wink since it happened."

John shakes his head. If Sherlock had been worried, he would have been to visit. He would have sent-- well, no, he wouldn't have sent flowers, but he would have sent something else, something inappropriate like a jar of pickled eyes or even the skull from the mantle to keep John company. He would have at least stopped by to say, "By the way, I'm not dead," instead of making John ask every nurse, orderly, and doctor until someone gave him answer, so he could finally sleep.

John spent a lot of time wondering why Sherlock stayed away. The truth is that he has no idea. Maybe Sherlock realised that caring about John was a liability. Maybe he never cared at all, and the stress of the situation made John see things that weren't there.

He's not sure he even wants to know, actually. He'll just be happy once he's home, once everything has gone back to how it was, before the pool. Even if what he wants is for things to change.

On the landing, John pauses to let the pain subside a bit.

"He told me it was all his fault," Mrs Hudson whispers loudly, hand cupped beside her mouth. "He said he'd almost lost you and he would never forgive himself."

"Sherlock said that?" John feels something unlock in his chest. It's an explanation he never even considered. He would feel foolish, but how could he have imagined that Sherlock would blame himself for something that was so clearly Moriarty's fault?

Mrs Hudson nods. "Go easy on him. He would have visited if he could. It's a hard thing, seeing someone you love all... you know."

John nods absently and opens the door. The familiar smell of home washes over him. There's a fire going, and Sherlock is sitting in the chair facing the window in his dressing gown, holding his violin but not playing it. He is paler than usual and his hair is a chaos of dark curls.

When he sees John, his eyes flood with what looks like relief. "John. You're home," he says, with a broken vulnerability in his voice that makes John tremble.

"Yes, I am," John says, walking over to the chair opposite Sherlock and lowering himself down.

They sit there for a long time, staring at one another and listening to the crackle of the fire.

 

 **And...**

John is home a few days before Sherlock starts to relax, to become more like himself. It's almost as if he doesn't believe that John is genuinely okay until he has observed him for forty-eight hours and noted that John hasn't fallen over in agony, began bleeding from every orifice, or spontaneously burst into flame. It should be unnerving to be monitored nearly around the clock, but John finds it comforting, coming from Sherlock.

Then one afternoon, Sherlock actually leaves the flat. John smiles and settles onto the couch with a book. Good. He's been worried about Sherlock; it's reassuring to see him wearing actual clothes, grabbing his coat and sweeping out the door with a clipped, "I'm going out."

Several hours later, Sherlock returns. He sits down on the couch next to John, smiling to himself.

"What's got you so happy? New case?"

"No. I have a lead on the whereabouts of Moriarty."

John's throat tightens. "Sherlock... maybe you should let the police handle that."

"Why would I do that? He almost-- he hurt you. He needs to be found and... and neutralized."

"He hurt you too," John says, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, and oh... that's nice. This is what he's been wanting. The physical touch, connecting them, makes John want to move in closer, snuggle up to Sherlock and bury his face in the side of Sherlock's neck.

He doesn't, though. As it is, Sherlock is looking down at John's hand as if it were a poisonous spider.

Sherlock shrugs dismissively. "It was only minor abrasions and a slight concussion."

"You had a concussion? No one told me that!" John has the urge to grab Sherlock and inspect him from head to toe, to make sure he is whole and undamaged. Of course, he doesn't do that either.

"Just a slight one. Yours was much worse."

"It was, but I'm fine now. I'll even get my charts from the hospital if it will make you--"

"Already saw them. And yes, I know."

"It's nice of you to worry about me, though," John says, squeezing Sherlock's arm a little.

"I knew you'd be all right. You're strong as an ox."

John smiles. "You did not." He means it jokingly, poking fun at Sherlock's occasional insistence that he knows everything, but Sherlock grimaces.

"I... was very worried."

"I know." John pauses and then says, "I thought you were dead, at first. No one would tell me where you were. I was --"

"John," says Sherlock, putting his hand on John's. "I think it's best not to talk about it."

Sherlock's hand is warm and covers John's completely. John isn't aware of any other nerve endings save those on the back of his left hand. "You're right. What's important is that you survived."

" _You_ survived."

John takes a shaky breath. "I don't think I'd want to survive without you."

"Nor would I," says Sherlock quietly, fingertips moving to caress the back of John's hand.

"Sherlock, I--"

"I know, John."

"No, I don't think you do."

Sherlock pulls John's hand up, brings it to his mouth, and kisses it. John swallows. "I do."

"Oh. Good," says John. The back of his hand tingles with the imprint of Sherlock's lips.

He wants more than that, much more. He knows it will come, in time. He can feel it approaching -- the moment when the force pulling them together will become too great to resist and they will come crashing together. After that, there will be skin and sweat and tongues and deep growling moans and long, lingering kisses.

But for now, there is Sherlock's hand in his, and the sun streaming through the windows of their flat. Home.

And for now, it's enough.


End file.
